The Worker's Poem.

I am a warehouse worker, I fit in no square peg
My edges are round and fruitful
I stand on obese legs
I work till I am humbled
I slave till I am bent
My fingers they are raw, dear
My neck, it aches, a-burning red

I am a warehouse worker, I stand and repeat moves
Over and over I robot, until the break behooves
My master to shout out, “lunch, last box, or break”
And when that word is uttered, an echo does it make
Around the warehouse floor, the workers they do whoop

And dance and mingle vaguely, and chatter about their hurt.

We are the poor-caste workers,
We stand on pained legs,
Our backs, they are a-broken,
Our souls bent, distorted, strained

All we do is complain, yes, all we do is gripe
About all our suffering, injustice, and crime
Of the few against the many,
Those who can afford the things
We pack and toil over nightly
We covet and we see

The disparagy between our peoples
The many with so few
Packing for the richmen
Packing for, likely, you.
We like to cook, too, you know,
We like to share food with friends,
We are no different from you,
We just have so little at the end

For there are children to feed,
And divorces to pay for,
Health concerns too costly to afford
The likes of Le Creuset and Kitchen Aid

I am a warehouse worker, I’m tired and underfed
My weight comes from my allergies
To subsidized eggs and bread
I have so little energy
I cannot make it said
In adequacy, how angered
The rich have made me red
We packed $800k today
We packed and stumbled home
To bottle, to wife, to bed
Too tired to revolt.